


Bad Influences

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Fingerfucking, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly PWP and then some crack ending.  For tf-rare-pair 'filling a void.  Uh. Something gets filled?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Influences

“Can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Really, sometimes Drift was a little too persuasive, or his recklessness was contagious. Because Ratchet couldn’t think of any other reason—any good reason—why he was in the medibay, after hours, with Drift laid out on a patient slab.

“Because it’s fun?” Drift squeezed his valve calipers down around Ratchet’s fingers, like some kind of punctuation.

Well, this part of it was fun, at any rate: Drift writhing on the slab, his equipment exposed, spike helplessly stabbing the air, glossed with lubricant, while Ratchet probed into the dark warmth of the valve. All the bad things he might say about Drift—flake, for example—but he was the most responsive lover Ratchet could remember having. It certainly went to your head—both heads—to have someone wriggle and moan just by one curl of a finger inside them.

“Someone could walk in on us,” Ratchet said.  First Aid, for example.  Whirl with another emergency. 

“I know,” Drift said, as though that made it even hotter.

It…kind of did. And if Ratchet was really that concerned, he would hurry it up—he figured he could get Drift off in less than a minute like this, but where was the fun in that? Besides, he had his professional pride.

And a third finger, which he squeezed into the valve, pressing out against the tight mesh, watching Drift’s optics widen, and a little bead of silver transfluid crest his spike. Drift’s head fell back, his hands clawing at each other. Yeah, that was one of Ratchet’s requirements: that Drift’s wrists be tied. He didn’t want to get distracted, and, well, Drift could be sort of handsy.

“Primus,” Drift gasped, and Ratchet could feel a ripple along the valve calipers. He leaned closer, sweeping his other thumb over the head of the spike, just enough to stir it to life.

“That’s not my name,” he said. He curled his fingers, fingertips pressing up against the mesh, and if he pushed just a little more, he could feel the base of the spike mount, tweak at one of its overload sensors to send a hard jolt through Drift’s systems.

“Ratchet!” Drift said, hastily, trying to correct himself. “Oh. Please. Just. Don’t stop.” The hips rolled on the slab, one foot reaching out to try to hook Ratchet closer, his entire frame undulating in time with the slow pull of Ratchet’s fingers.

“In ancient Earth culture,” Ratchet began, pitching his voice to Dull Lecture, “humans did this kind of thing as a cure for hysteria.” He’d seen the devices himself—mechanical spike replacements, that vibrated. He…could vibrate his fingers, but, yeah, he was going to save that for another time. It was enough to do this, to keep the spread and pull of his fingers in a slow, building tempo against the valve’s plush mesh, feeling the calipers swirl and fret. “Supposed to cure the patient of nervous energy.”

“Uh huh.” Drift wasn’t listening: he was tuned to his own body, feeling the valve, hips arching up, his spike throbbing as each pull grazed its mounting nodes. He tried to anticipate Ratchet’s tempo, pushing himself against the fingers.

“You seem to have a lot of nervous energy,” Ratchet said. “Really, it’s a public service.” And besides, he had a fourth finger, and with a little twist and shift, he inserted that, too, into the valve, his knuckles grazing the rim. Drift’s chassis half-rose off the slab, his vocalize giving birth to a sound that was less a word than a pure ululation of need as the calipers squeezed, then surrendered, to the mass of Ratchet’s hand.

Drift wouldn’t last much longer like this, and honestly, Ratchet was on the edge himself. The four fingers could barely move, fan open, and then close, give a pull. He wiggled them instead, against the valve, watching Drift’s body quiver in response. “…please,” Drift whimpered, his blue optics thin lines of want.

“Since you asked so nicely.” It was the work of a few seconds to slide his hand out, leaving a wet palm print on Drift’s hip as he flipped him expertly over, dragging him, belly down, across the slab, the mech’s spike trapped between his belly armor and the cold metal table. Ratchet paused, just for a klik, to take in the other’s body—the powerful back, heavy hip frame, curved thighs, and that valve, dark and slick and promising.

His spike wasn’t as thick as his hand, but it was big enough that Drift groaned needily as he pushed it in, slowly at first, to settle the calipers, before he began a relentless rhythm, driving his hips against Drift’s aft, hands hooked over the red flares of the other’s thighs, jerking Drift back and forward with each pull and thrust. Drift’s moans were muffled against the slab, but he could hear the build of them, feel the EM field thicken and crest, just before Drift overloaded, the valve clamping down against Ratchet’s spike. He could feel, through the mesh of the lining, the throbbing push of transfluid, as Drift’s spike, sliding back and forth over the slab, had surrendered, painting his belly and the table with silver.

Drift’s body shook, long, slow tremors, of cresting and then ebbing pleasure, his hands knotted together like prayer.

Ratchet wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. He began moving again, agonizingly slowly, pulling out till just the head of his spike rested in the valve, and sliding slowly back in, feeling the mesh part and snug around him. It was just on the verge of too much for Drift, he knew, the sensors in the mesh hyperstimulated by the overload. But not over that edge—Ratchet could go slowly enough, to just drag and draw it out, pulling that sighing moan from Drift’s voice.

“This is what you get,” Ratchet said, “for that hallway incident.” It had been, well, honestly never, since someone had pushed him against the wall like that. And Drift’s optics had been intense and blue and he hadn’t spoken a word, just jammed Ratchet’s shoulders against the wall, before sliding down to his knees, his sword-hardened hands moving to release Ratchet’s spike. It was probably vulgar to say, but Drift could suck a spike, glossa playing on the underside, mouth snugging tight against the shaft, head bobbing against Ratchet’s thighs, suckling and sliding with just the right speed.

His release had been a white hot burst of fluid, deep in Drift’s throat, and the mech had swallowed it eagerly, sucking harder at the spike to coax any last drops from it before sitting back on his heels, looking up at Ratchet, licking his lip plates.  And then left, without saying a word.  Not that Ratchet had been able to find any: he'd slumped against the wall, spike throbbing, for a good five decakliks. 

Yeah…that called for retaliation. Somehow. Don’t ask Ratchet how just yet. Because right now, Drift’s valve was just as pleasing, just as tempting, warm and slippery from the overload, but still grasping, wanting, at his spike as he slid it in and out.

“I’m not,” Drift murmured into the slab, hands knotting over his head, “sorry.”

“Good,” Ratchet said. “I’d hate to miss the chance to retaliate again.” Did he just invite Drift to do that again? Yeah, he did. Because the day a mech didn’t want a spontaneous blowjob was the day a mech should turn himself into the smelter.

He picked up speed, one hand moving between Drift’s shoulders, clamping over one of the little winglets, hauling up to arch the other’s spinal struts. “Want me to let you overload again?”

“Yes!”

Ratchet tsked. “Greedy thing. And I haven’t once.”

“Please. Primus.” A twitch and he hastened to correct himself. “Ratchet. I mean Ratchet. Please.”

Ratchet grinned. That was more like it. “Please what.”

“Please. Let me—I want to feel you...gah. Please. Inside me."

"I am inside you." He gave a harder thrust, jamming against the valve's ceiling.  He'd always thought this kind of dirty talk a little awkward, embarrassing, but damn him if it wasn't hotter than slag when Drift did it.

"I meant," a twisting thrash, like wrestling with embarrassment, "overload, come, spill. Finish. Primus. Please!"  The hips wriggled against his, more urgently now, almost demanding, hands clutching into the slab's far rim.

"I...think I might be able to oblige you." It was hard to keep his tone as distant as it was, because his whole body was flaring, tingling with mounting pressure, building toward the release. It was hard to hold back at all--Drift's needy voice, the sinuous, erotic sway of his spinal strut, the very idea of the powerful swordsmech clinging to Ratchet's spike, begging to overload...yeah, it went to both of Ratchet's heads again. All at once, in fact, washing over any of his ability to resist.  Drift wanted him to overload, well, Drift got what he wanted: Ratchet's hands gripped at the little winglets on Drift's back, grinding his baseplate against the valve's rim, giving a choking groan as his systems tipped over, spike pumping spurt after spurt of fluid in the warm snugness of the valve. Drift's calipers squeezed, milking at the spike, his own body shuddering with another release, before sagging back down onto the berth, while the last hazy edges of it faded from Ratchet's mind. 

"You," Ratchet said, flopping forward, crossing his arms over Drift's back. "Are a bad influence." 

"Kind of having a hard time feeling 'bad' about anything right now," Drift murmured.

"Hnf." Ratchet said. "Because you probably haven't seen the mess we've made." Then again, Ratchet hasn't, either, but he can feel the silver heat slipping down his thighs, over the slab's edge, as he pulled out of the valve, feeling the mesh collapse around the head.

Drift moved, slowly, languorously, rolling over onto his elbows. His chassis was smeared with his own transfluid, spike still half-pressurized, as he gave Ratchet a long, drowsy look, down his frame, to Ratchet's own, silver-smeared spike.  Drift's hands were folded almost decorously over his chestplate, as his glossa described a slow trail on his lower lipplate. "I could help you with that." 

***

"This," Chromedome said, rubbing his hands together, "is at least the top five plans I ever had. Rewind," he leaned over, slapping a friendly hand on the smaller mech's shoulder. "We're going to make a fortune with this one."

Rewind looked up from the screen. It had been his work to bug medibay, full video and sound. Excellent work.  Only way this could get better is if Chromedome could snatch a mnemofile from one of them. But that wasn't likely to happen any time soon. "I thought Rodimus commissioned this one for, uh, what did he call it? 'Personal use'? Doesn't that give him, you know, rights?"

Rodimus had, indeed.  Rodimus was collecting probably the world's largest collection of shipboard porn ever collected.  Some of it starring himself.  "Yeah, but that's shipboard rights. Trust me, Rewind.  There are a lot of places that will pay absolute top shanix for this kind of stuff."  He almost wriggled with glee. "I have a few ins on 'Earth', for starters."


End file.
